


I Hate You

by HLine



Series: We Are Never Getting Back Together [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Bad Parenting, Connor's a traumatized little shit, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:52:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2540129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HLine/pseuds/HLine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham tries to bond with Connor. It doesn't go well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hate You

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so, I'll be putting this in the Saturday update of A Poison Tree as well, but just to let my readers know, I'm going down to once weekly updates again due to me taking part in NaNoWriMo this year.

Haytham was starting to wish that he had more casual clothing. He was certain that a full suit was not the best clothes to visit a small child in. Still, while raising his hand to knock on the door was hardly the time to start fussing.

Tucking his hands behind his back while he waited, Haytham was horribly aware of how out of place he was in this neighbourhood. It was not a bad neighbourhood by any stretch of the mind, oh no. In fact, it was quite pleasant. Large, old trees, only just beginning to change colour, lined the streets and shaded the small but neat houses there. Green lawns and bright gardens still flourished despite the cool air, giving the whole neighbourhood a picturesque, post-card like feel.

The people he had seen only added to this charm. Middle aged women keeping a close eye on their children as they kicked a ball around gardened furiously, occasionally breaking off to shout at a child that ventured a little too close to the road. A dark-skinned younger couple had crossed the road while he waited at a stop sign, hand in hand and pushing a stroller together. Haytham had even seen a man kissing his wife goodbye before getting into a car to go to what was presumably his work. All little scenes that belonged in some movie, not real life.

Each house was different, too, nothing like the cookie-cutter suburbs only a mile or two down the road. The small, clap-board sided house that he was standing in front of was nothing like the large brick colonial home beside it. Its long covered porch had the small signs of a child being in residence; small plastic trucks lay carelessly abandoned, left where they were when their owner was called in for dinner. Small scratches marked up the varnished boards, and Haytham was fairly certain he could see a small battalion of little army men shoved carelessly under the porche's bench. 

All of this, of course, just made him in his stiff, formal clothing and his expensive black car stick out terribly.

Finally, just as Haytham was beginning to wonder if he had perhaps arrived at the wrong house, the door opened. Opening his mouth to greet Ziio, his voice caught as he realized that it was not her who had answered the door. It was his son.

He looked just like the picture. Skinny little arms and legs, looking almost too weak to support his chubby little body. His duckling-patterned pajamas, riding up slightly to expose a slice of his warm brown belly to the cool autumn air. His round-cheeked face, freckles sprinkled across it just like his mother, squinted up at him suspiciously.

Haytham cleared his throat, keeping his eyes locked on the boy.

"Is your mother in?" he asked.

The boy's eyes narrowed even further. (Connor, not the boy. He had to call his son by name.)

"You're my dad, aren't you?" he said flatly.

Haytham swallowed. He hadn't expected to explain himself quite so quickly, but -

He nodded. 

Connor frowned and closed the door.

For a few moments, Haytham didn't quite realize what had happened. His son had answered the door - they had briefly spoken - and now the door was closed. Judging from the fading footsteps that he could hear, Connor had also left the door as well.

The only thing that crossed his mind was that this was an inauspicious start to his visit.

Still...perhaps it was only that Ziio hadn't explained to their son that he would be visiting today, and Connor was merely surprised or interrupted in the middle of something. It was still morning. If Haytham remembered his own childhood correctly, the usual cartoon lineup in the morning lasted until noon. It was only ten in the morning.

With that in mind, he steeled himself and knocked again. Just a little louder, now.

"Just a moment!"

Ziio's voice, muffled as it was through the door, had him relaxing unconsciously. She would explain what had just gone on. 

Swinging the door open, a rather more ruffled than Haytham was used to seeing Ziio stood there with a robe clearly hastily thrown over a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt.

"Haytham," she said, her steady voice at odds with her dishevelled appearance, "my apologies. I was cleaning and lost track of time. Please, come in."

Not trusting himself to speak, Haytham merely nodded and stepped into the narrow hallway, shuffling slightly to one side to allow his ex-lover to close the door behind him. Immediately, the sound of a TV reached him, the odd springy noises that were purely the purview of cartoons drifting through the air. 

Perhaps his hypothesis had actually been correct. 

But his mind was not on hypotheses at the moment. Instead, it was focused on scrutinizing the surroundings he had found himself in. 

The hallway was painted an inoffensive beige, the shade that Haytham had found all rented houses tended to be. A few lonely pops of colour from pieces of traditionally woven Mohawk cloth were on the wall. Beside him was a small table with a bowl on it that was filled with keys, with a shoe mat placed beside it that had a small pair of muddy bright blue rain boots on it.

"Forgot that you were coming this early," Ziio said behind him, shutting the door and locking it. "I would have dressed up more."

"It's quite all right," Haytham said absentmindedly, "Should I take my shoes off?"

She glanced down at his shiny leather loafers and hummed thoughtfully to herself. "No," she said slowly, "I think you'll be okay. I doubt that you were jumping in every puddle you could find yesterday." She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. "He's in the living room, watching TV. You can hang your coat up on the hook."

Haytham bit the inside of his cheek and inclined his head. After doing as she suggested, he carefully made his way down the narrow hallway until it opened up into a kitchen. It was small, with only a table, a combined stove and oven, and a tiny bit of counter space that separated it from the living room. Stepping carefully around the edge of the counter, Haytham couldn't help but swallow nervously. A slightly battered old couch and cheap television had never seemed so intimidating as then, with the knowledge that his son was there.

Stopping at the end of the couch, Haytham tucked his hands behind his back nervously and kept his eyes on the television. It was playing some odd little show about a pair of twins investigating mysteries - he didn't particularly follow what they were doing, it involved living wax dolls. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he noted that his son certainly seemed interested enough in what was going on. Sitting cross-legged, with his chin in his hands, he was studiously ignoring Haytham. 

Eventually, the male twin was able to defeat the ringleader of the wax figurines by tricking it into being outside when the sun came up, and the credits began to roll. Haytham supposed that now was most likely the best time to properly introduce himself. 

Sitting down on the arm of the couch, he cleared his throat to get Connor's attention. The boy didn't move, keeping his eyes firmly fixed upon the screen in front of him. Stamping down his irritation, Haytham folded his hands in his lap and thought carefully for a moment.

"Hello, Connor," he said carefully. The boy didn't move. "My name is Haytham Kenway, and I am," and oh, that word, that wonderful and terrifying word resisted leaving his throat, "your father."

"I know," Connor said flatly. 

Haytham forged onward with his little speech, deciding to ignore his son's tone for the moment. "I am not sure if your mother informed you of my intention to come here today, or why," he said, picking each word as carefully as his clothing on a court date, "but after learning of you I found myself wishing to know more about you."

Connor grunted and finally tore his eyes away from the television, which was now advertising some disgustingly sugar-filled cereal. His eyes skipped over Haytham from his shoes to his hair. He did not appear to be impressed by what he saw.

Luckily, before Haytham had to come up with anything else to say, Ziio walked into the kitchen behind him, her rubber gloves gone. Looking over at Connor, she frowned.

"Connor," she said sternly, "I told you to be dressed by now."

The boy's shoulders hunched up to around his ears, and he looked away. His lower lip began to poke out.

"Connor." Yes, that was a definite pout.

"Ratonhnhake:ton." 

That seemed to be the magic word. Reluctantly, and still with a pout on his face, the little boy slid off of the couch and turned off the television before sullenly shuffling away like some storm cloud. Ziio sighed and leaned against the counter. 

"I'm sorry," she began, "I thought he'd be excited to meet you. Before the fire -" She stopped and shook her head. Haytham shifted from foot to foot in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. He wanted to take her into his arms, hold her until that tired look drained from her face. But he knew that it wouldn't be appropriate.

"That's quite all right," he said, offering the weak balm of understanding. "I can imagine that once the event arrives, it may not be able to live up to one's expectations."

The look that Ziio shot him was oddly speculative. But before they could say anything more, Connor padded back into the kitchen, still doing an excellent impression of a stormcloud. Now he was wearing a simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt, with a -

Ziio groaned.

"Ratonhnhake:ton, we've talked about the hat," she said sternly.

Looking out from under the knitted wool cap that was shaped like a snarling wolf, Connor chin rounded out into a stubborn pout.

"I like the hat," he said.

"I know," said Ziio, "but it's a sometimes hat, not an every day hat."

Sensing the boy's foul mood worsening even more, Haytham hastily stepped in. "It is just a hat," he said, his eyes darting between mother and son, "hardly something to get worked up over."

Ziio's thinning lips let him know that his interruption was not appreciated. Internally, he winced. Connor did not appear to be paying attention at all to him, keeping his attention locked on his mother. He looked ready to go a few rounds in the battle of the hat, and it seemed that Ziio realized that as well. Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose and frowned.

"All right," she said, "you can keep the hat on. Now what do you want to do with your father?"

"Nothing."

Haytham's gut shrivelled into a knot.

"He's right here, Ratonhnhake:ton."

"So?"

"Ratonhnhake:ton..."

The familiar warning tone made Haytham wince. He almost wanted to warn Connor that his mother was not going to let this go. However, he appeared to have completely become part of the scenery to the two of them. They were practically nose to nose with each other, a terrible battle of wills that would only allow one person to walk away.

"How about you show him your pitching."

"Don't wanna."

"Then how about you show him your art from the centre?"

The withering disbelieving look that was shot towards him made Haytham feel a little insulted. He rather gathered that Ziio had meant the art that Connor had made at her work at the Aboriginal Cultural Centre, and while he hadn't bothered to drop by after the break-up, that had been due to awkwardness, not lack of interest.

"Ratonhnhake:ton, you will do something with your father."

"Or what?"

Haytham would swear to his dying day that the air had darkened as Ziio straightened up and crossed her arms. Glaring down at Connor, she raised her finger like it was a sword and pointed it at him.

"What did you say, young man?"

Connor seemed to realize just what he had said. Shrinking back, he hunched his shoulders around his ears and scuffed at the linoleum floor with a toe. 

"Said I was sorry," he mumbled.

"And?"

"An' I'll show him my pitching."

"Good," she said. The suffocating air in the room lightened. "Now, go get your glove and a ball, and you can play in the backyard."

Connor nodded, still staring at the floor, and quietly padded away. Ziio sighed once he was out of the room.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she said, turning back towards him. "He just gets...moods, sometimes."

"Well, if he doesn't want to spend time with me -"

"No, no," she said, shaking her head, "he does. Believe me, since the first time I pointed you out on TV to him, he's constantly asked to meet you."

Haytham felt a bit skeptical at this pronouncement, but tried to believe what she was saying. Maybe his first idea was the correct one, despite how the boy was acting. He certainly wanted to believe so. Being a father had been one of his dreams since he was a young boy. But the sinking feeling that this had all been a mistake was refusing to go away.

"So," Haytham said uncomfortably, "pitching, eh?"

Ziio huffed amusedly. "Yes, pitching." She tucked her hair behind her ear, the stress draining from her face. "He adores it. Spends hours outside practicing. I"m actually thinking about signing him up for Little League next year."

Haytham raised his eyebrows. "I see," he said, "he enjoys it that much?"

Ziio shrugged. "Well," she said, "he's certainly stuck with it longer than soccer."

Haytham made interested noises. Little League, eh? He had never particularly been fond of organized sports growing up, but he had participated in the occasional game of pick-up rugby in university. He could work with this.

Eventually, Connor dragged himself back into the room, holding a baseball and a glove in his hands. Ziio didn't precisely smile down at him, but her gaze softened. 

"Good," she praised, "now how about you go show your father the pitch we set up out there."

Connor didn't look up from his feet, but nodded. Plodding towards the sliding glass doors, he slid them open and slipped out, Haytham following with a spring in his step.

* * *

"Really? You needed ice?"

Haytham nodded, not lifting his eyes from where he was disconsolately drawing patterns in the condensation on the surface of the bar. 

Jenny let out a harsh bark of laughter, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She didn't smoke often, but considering that Haytham had specifically met her here to unload his difficulties with Connor, he was willing to let it slide.

"Well, damn," she said, "and I thought you and Dad had problems."

Haytham growled. "I didn't come here to talk about my relationship with our father," he said.

Jenny waved his words away like her cigarette smoke. "Alright, alright," she said, her amusement not leaving her voice, "but you have to admit, him beaning you in the dick and then making himself some chocolate milk is pretty hilarious."

Haytham just grunted. After leaving the house, they had found themselves in a small, fenced-in backyard with a target painted at one end. Connor had solemnly handed him a rather raggedy baseball glove and directed him to stand in front of the target so that he could catch his pitches. Not suspecting anything, Haytham had done so, crouching down with the glove held out in front of him.

The first time the ball hit him, he had written it off as an accident. After all, Connor was only five; it was not strange that his aim would be a little off. Even the second and third balls, he was willing to excuse. It was only after the fourth ball had struck him directly in the crotch, sending him to the ground, that he had suspected that perhaps Connor was not missing. Him leaving and going back to watching television as Haytham tried to regain the strength to get back to his feet simply cinched it. Even Ziio's punishment of having him sit in the corner seemed to have no effect.

Things had not gotten any better since that day.

A walk in the park had ended with Connor in a tree and refusing to come down, not even for ice cream. A visit to the museum ended with them nearly banned from the premises after Connor climbed onto one of the skeletons and tried to pry a tooth loose for a 'souvenir'. And Haytham didn't even want to think about the mall.

So many thongs.

Jenny sighed and signalled the bartender to refill Haytham's cup. Watching the amber liquid climb higher, Haytham wondered what Connor would do during their next father-son date. Hotwire a car and drive it into traffic? He wouldn't put it past the boy.

After the bartender left, Jenny took a puff from her cigarette and let it out. "Seriously, though," she said, amusement fleeing from her face, "it seems like the kid really hates you."

Haytham nodded and took a swig. The alcohol burned its way down his throat. "That he does," he said dully. "And I don't even know why."

"It could just be because of the whole, someone's taking up Mommy's time that isn't me?"

Haytham shook his head. "He calls her Ista," he noted, "and I don't think that it's just that. Wouldn't he cling to Ziio if that was the case? No, he only seems to have a problem with spending time with me."

Puff puff puff. Jenny's brow was furrowed in thought. "You're probably right," she admitted, still puffing away. "That sort of thing that you've been describing isn't normal. I kind of wish that we could know what the hell's going on in his head."

Haytham shrugged and stared down at his drink. "You and me both, Jenny," he said heavily, "you and me both."

They sat there in silence for a while, just drinking and smoking. It was a sympathetic silence; neither of them were ones for hugs and backslaps, but Haytham knew that Jenny could understand his feelings. Being rejected from family was never pleasant. 

"Haytham," Jenny began, breaking the silence between them, "have you thought about maybe, say, taking the hint here?" Her voice was terribly sympathetic. "I mean, if he's doing all this to avoid spending time with you..."

Haytham swallowed the lump in his throat. "The thought has - occured to me," he said. He began to doodle with the drops of water on the bar again. "Who wouldn't, after all? But -" He stopped, trying to put his feelings into words. 

This was not some open and shut court case, or a card game where he had a bad hand. This was his son. Likely his only son, if Haytham was being honest with himself. To cut himself off just because it was a little difficult... The very idea was anathema to the man that had paid for his own way through law school. The prosecuter that never backed down, no matter what the threat, who had helped dismantle one of the largest human trafficking rings in the world fresh out of law school. 

"...I can't," he said quietly. "I can't just give up like that."

"Sometimes you have to fold Haytham. There's no shame in that."

Stubbornly, he shook his head. "No. Not me."

"Haytham-"

"Not. Me." He turned his gaze away from the drink to look at her pleadingly. "I can't stop just because things are a little difficult."

Jenny looked back, her blue eyes inscrutable. "And I can't stand to see you hurt," she said. 

Well. What was Haytham supposed to say to that? He pressed his knuckles to his eyes and began to swirl his drink. He wasn't quite drunk yet; at the very least, his eyes weren't welling up and he wasn't sobbing into Jenny's shoulder. He could feel the alcohol in his veins, though, and he knew that it wouldn't be long before it hit him full force. 

"Promise me something, Haytham," Jenny said as he scrubbed at his face with one hand. "If you insist on following this through."

Haytham breathed in deeply and let his hand drop. He knew that he wasn't going to like this.

"Don't give the brat unlimited chances."

"Don't call him a brat," Haytham said automatically, even as he agreed with her assessment of the boy's character.

"Haytham-" and now she was laying a hand over his, stopping him swirling his drink. It was very warm.

Haytham closed his eyes.

"One more try," he said quietly. "I'll give him one more chance."

Jenny didn't say another word. But the way she squeezed his hand spoke volumes.

* * *

The Last Chance (for who, Haytham was not sure) ended up taking place that Saturday in the park. Apparently during the week Connor had expressed the desire to go back, though judging from the impression of a knee-high thunder cloud he was doing by Haytham's knee, he hadn't wanted to do it with his father. Haytham kept a wary eye on him; he didn't want a repeat of their previous visit. 

"Four dollars," the owner of the hot dog cart grunted, holding out a hand. Haytham thumbed through his wallet and handed four bills to the man, accepting the two hot dogs in exchange. Slipping his walllet back into his pocket, he then leaned down to hand one to the boy.

"What would you like on yours?" he asked.

Connor very deliberately didn't answer. Taking the hot dog reluctantly, as if it was dripping with sewage, he reached up and grabbed the ketchup bottle from where it was on the side table of the stand and began to drown the poor piece of meat with an intense look on his face.

Ketchup it was, then. Haytham stifled a sigh. He really didn't want to cut himself off from his son, but Jenny was right. It was pointless to waste so much time and energy on someone unwilling to even try. He had just hoped...

If wishes were fishes, then there'd be no hunger. A saying from his father. 

Mournfully, he ladled relish and onions onto his own hot dog. He wasn't even really hungry, himself; Connor's stomach had growled as they were walking and he had refused to eat unless Haytham ate as well, muttering something about poison. Unwilling to make Connor's mood any fouler due to hunger, he had capitulated and guided the boy over to a nearby hot dog stand. A drizzle of mustard on top of the purple onions finished his own topping ritual off, and then he took his son's limp hand into his own as they walked towards a nearby bench to eat. Behind him, he could hear the hot dog man pick up his stand and begin to wheel it away.

Regrettably, his hunger didn't appear even as Connor began to bite through the meat like he had a grudge against it. Staring down at the greasy meat in the bun, all he could really feel was a faint feeling of nausea.

He didn't want to have to do this. He didn't want to have to leave his son behind. But sitting there, with Connor gnawing spitefully on his hot dog and glaring at him out of the corner of his eye when he thought that Haytham wasn't looking, he couldn't lie to himself any longer.

This wasn't simply being unused to having him around. Or a bad mood. Or an honest lack of co-ordination, or any one of the hundred excuses he had given himself in their short few weeks spending time together. This was pure, unrelenting, savage hatred. The sort of thing that no child should even be capable of feeling. And it was all directed at him. With the cold autumn wind wrapping around him, Haytham could admit this to himself.

It looked like he was going to have to go back to just wishing for a family.

Beside him, Connor threw the last little bit of his bun onto the ground, attracting the few birds that were still around for the winter. Haytham's own hot dog was stone cold, now. A waste of two dollars, he thought to himself as he eyed it critically. Sighing, he began to eat it anyway. He hated to waste anything.

Looking over, he saw that Connor had resettled into what seemed to be his usual stormy mood. With his arms crossed, his brow furrowed and a massive frown, he reminded Haytham of nothing more than that strange deformed cat Hickey had shown him one time. The ketchup smeared all down the lower half of his face somewhat damaged the intimidation factor, though. 

Sighing (he seemed to do that a lot around Connor), he stopped eating. Unwrapping the napkin from his meal, he leaned over to clean him up before they went on.   
Immediately, Connor tried to squirm away, glaring suspiciously. "What are you doing!" he snapped, looking rather as if Haytham was trying to molest him. "Don't touch me!"

Haytham took a deep breath and stomped down on the surge of irritation that welled up within him. 

"You can't run around covered in ketchup," he tried to reason, "your mother-"

Rage flared in the boy's eyes.

"Don't talk about her!" he growled. "You aren't allowed to talk about her!"

Haytham frowned. "You can't say that someone isn't allowed to talk to someone else," he pointed out, quite reasonably in his own opinion.

"Yes I can!" Connor said, his cheeks reddening. "She's my ista!"

"Son-"

"Stop!"

The sheer ridiculousness of the situation momentarily robbed Haytham of speech. The boy's hand had flown out, as if it could physically ward off his words. His face was still covered in ketchup, and his chin had rounded out, transforming his frown into more of a pout. And all of a sudden, he got angry.

How dare this boy spurn his efforts. Spit upon his attempts to make peace, to bond with him despite the fact that Haytham didn't need to do any of that?

"Alright then, boy," he began, sitting up straight and narrowing his eyes, "tell me, then, what exactly am I to stop? Stop spending time with you? Stop attempting to bond with an arrogant, mindless, unappreciative brat? One who cannot even manage the simple task of keeping himself clean?" He noted with savage satisfaction how the boy's shoulders had jerked as he spat out the words. "Oh yes," he hissed, "that would be such a hardship, leaving you to your mother. For god's sake, boy, do you even realize how ridiculous you sound? Telling your own father to go away?"

"You're not my father!" the boy shouted back. "You don't get to-"

"I don't get to what?" Haytham snarled. The boy's eyes were shining with tears, and distantly Haytham realized that he was enjoying this far more than he should. "I don't get to attempt to bond with the waste of flesh that parades itself around as mine?"

"I don't-"

"I don't get to try and spend time with this useless waste, despite the fact that I would face no penalty in leaving you to your own devices? I don't get to waste my time and money on a stupid brat that can't appreciate everything that I'm doing to try and help him and his mother?" He was standing now, looming over the boy, who was now red not with anger but with the struggle to hold back his tears, his little fists clenched at his sides. "Tell me, boy," he spat, his face close to Connor's, "what is it that you are forbidding me from doing?"

"You don't -" the boy choked out, trembling, "you don't -"

"I don't, I don't," Haytham mocked.

"You don't get to just come back!" Connor screamed, tears flowing down his tomato-red face. "You don't get to come back and pretend that everything's all right! It's not all right! Ista - if you were there, Ista -" The rest of his words dissolved into sobs as he abruptly sat down, sobbing. As if like a switch, something turned off in Haytham's head, and he jerked back.

What had he been doing? 

Clumsily, he reached down to try to comfort the boy, only to have his hands batted away. God, what had he been thinking? Taking joy in ripping a little boy to pieces? And what was it that the boy had said? 

"I-ista," Connor sobbed.

...Oh dear lord. Ziio's injuries. She had told him how Connor had tried to save her when the beam had fallen on her. How he had to be dragged away. Had he truly begun to blame Haytham for not being there to save them? God, and he had just called him a stupid little brat for feeling that way. Looking down at the boy, Haytham felt like bursting into tears himself. But he didn't.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, full of regret. "You aren't stupid. That makes perfect sense."

Haytham wasn't sure if the boy could hear him over his own crying, but when Haytham gathered Connor into his arms, the boy didn't resist.


End file.
